


the night my only companion

by NoScrubs12345



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoScrubs12345/pseuds/NoScrubs12345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of trying to find the sleep he no longer needs, Owen wanders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the night my only companion

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [myfanwys_nest](http://myfanwys-nest.livejournal.com/) prompt "sleep deprivation." Coda to the tie-in novel _SkyPoint_.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. He has no need of it. No need to waste still another night dreaming of Katie and the horrors he sees day after day. No need to hide from the demons that still plague him even in this mockery of something between life and death.

Instead of hiding behind the oppressive walls of his flat and slowly going mad waiting for another grey dawn, he walks the darkened city streets. Trying to lose himself. Trying to find meaning in his pitiful charade of existence.

He strolls past the city’s buildings, even in enlightened death not appreciating their stark beauty or facades gruesome in their sobriety.

It’s the people that catch his eyes in lieu of the architecture or the garish glow of neon and pallid, unfeeling city lights that mark his path. He watches them from a distance, always with a wistful smile at those enjoying life or love and a phantom ache inside his shattered chest for those who walk like ghosts through the darkness, seemingly alone in their shared melancholic pain.

He feels like something out of a Williams play or a Frost poem as he wanders. But there is no Stella to call him back and the omniscient luminary clock is hidden behind dark clouds that prevent it telling the precision of his midnight vigil. There is no menagerie of glass, only his now broken and frail body. When the snow starts to fall, he doesn’t stop to watch the streets fill with delicate white flakes. Without stopping, he holds out his battered hand and watches as the snow lands gently on his glove.

He shudders in memory of sweet wintry chill, half-heartedly wishing he could still feel the permeating cold, feel the snow landing in his hand and chilling his fingers. Still feel anything in this sham.

He wipes his glove on his Levi’s with a practised snort and pulls his coat closer around him out of habit. The cold he can no longer feel echoes the numbness inside him. His pace quickens as he walks under a flickering street light, his thoughts and his farcical regrets his only company as he roams the dark streets alone in a death no more hollow than his abridged life.


End file.
